


...Waiting 00:00:00

by kuonji



Series: Closeted [2]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Aliens Make Them Do It, Dark, M/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuonji/pseuds/kuonji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The important thing is, that it's temporary. Jack will come back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...Waiting 00:00:00

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to princessofg for the run-through.
> 
> Alternative Links:  
> <http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/11665.html>

00:00:01

00:00:02

00:00:03

00:00:04

...

Daniel awakes with a start. He fumbles with the object in his hands, bringing it up to his face when he gets it upright. He depresses a small button on the side, and a faint light illuminates the small, rectangular screen.

04:43:51

He slumps in relief.

He'd fallen asleep again. But it isn't too late.

There's a good hour and a half before Jack will be back.

Squeezing its tiny but reassuring weight once in his hand, he replaces the stopwatch at the front corner of the small room. There's a small depression in the carpet where the fibers have been scraped to run the opposite way. He patiently clears the spot with his fingers every cycle.

That done, he straightens and begins to stretch himself out. Methodic. Arms, then neck, then he stands up to stretch his legs and back. The ceiling's too short and the walls too close to do anything energetic, but he can manage well enough.

He has to.

Scrubbing his face with his hands, he bends to check the stopwatch again.

04:48:49

Okay, sit-ups first. Then squats. Push-ups off the knees, because he doesn't have the room for proper ones. He'll do some jogging last, even though it's not required this time. The all over body motion leaves him physically tired but mentally sharp. It also goes far in tamping down the impending panic that he can never get rid of when that stopwatch hits six hours.

04:49:15

He counts the sit-ups in his head, has to breathe extra hard when he feels the pull of tight, injured muscles across his left side.

Nothing to get worked up over. Getting worked up only makes things worse.

He won't fight back today. He won't be stupid anymore.

It's just one more thing. One more meaningless increment in not-Jack's sick games.

He can take it.

04:53:03

He wipes the sweat off of his chest with his fingernails. In the absence of towels or water, he scrapes it off like you'd do with a horse. An animal. Exercising naked in the dark is great. Clean-up is a cinch, and you never have to worry about propriety.

04:53:18

Squats are done with his back to the door. Any other place causes the chain to clank annoyingly. He doesn't like that. He's careful to move straight up and down. Every twenty-count or so, he has to correct himself and hold the chain from swinging. The padlock against his throat scrapes painfully if he doesn't.

Jack has been putting lotion on his neck, but he could do without the chafing and the attention both, thank you very much.

He has to stop and catch his breath for a moment. Exertion, he tells himself fiercely. It's difficult to get used to aerobic exercises without being able to exhale normally through his mouth. At least the gag forces him not to dry out his body by gulping in air.

He lifts the collar to clean his neck with an angry swipe. And another.

05:02:57

Squats. No thinking.

Not yet.

05:09:28

Time is a relative thing, here in Closetworld. He can never be sure what Greenwich says, but thanks to the plastic hobby stopwatch Jack had given him, he always knows how many minutes and hours have passed since the last cycle.

When he can't settle down, he plays games with himself:

How many animals can you think of within thirty seconds?

Name one architectural component, of any culture, every five seconds; how long can you keep it up?

Close your eyes and estimate five minutes passing by.

He's got the last one down to within ten seconds now. He can finally believe what Teal'c used to say to him about an internal clock that warriors learn to have.

Another game -- the original game -- is, how fast can he finish his push-ups?

05:11:40

The answer: fast enough.

He slides the chain to the back of his neck and begins jogging in place.

The tension on his trachea is irritating, but it's better than running the risk of .75-inch diameter steel links slamming into his bare balls with every wrong move.

Facing towards the door also gives him the illusion of running. Escape. He's not running out of here for real, he knows. If he ever gets out of this, it'll be by rescue or release.

He just has to wait for it.

05:14:32

In the late afternoon as it presumably is now, there's enough light leaking through the cracks around the door to allow Daniel a visual of the room if he wants it. He has it all memorized now, like a good little soldier. Ironically, he thinks, Jack would have been proud.

A medium-sized closet, it's roughly five feet square and nearly a foot taller than Daniel's head. A solid horizontal pole mounted firmly across one side probably once held clothes. It now puts in service for off-the-knee chin-ups and the occasional hamstring stretch.

Markings show that a matching pole on the opposite side, plus shelves in the back, had been taken out. There's a layer of plaster in the ceiling covering a hole that no doubt once held a light. The plaster had been a day fresh when Daniel had 'moved in'.

For an entire week, Jack had fooled everybody. For a week after P4X-698, he'd seemed the same sarcastic, irreverent, sometimes grouchy, sometimes boisterous Colonel O'Neill that everyone knew. The whole time, however, the bastard had been doing this -- had been quietly dismantling his closet and outfitting it with everything necessary to hold a human _pet_.

Hell, this... man. This horrible, twisted parody of his friend. This _not-Jack_. He's probably still acting normal outside of this house. This room. Why else would nobody have come to investigate yet?

Daniel has been here for how long now? Without a single soul catching on.

The sudden lack of oxygen catches Daniel by surprise. He squeezes his eyes shut and lurches on with his jogging, trying to ride it out until it becomes imperative to stop and get down on the ground with his head between his knees.

He doesn't know, he realizes, sucking in gasps of inadequate air.

He fucking can't remember.

Time's a relative thing, and he's been stuck in this closet, this room that has become his entire world, for a long time, and _he can't remember how long_.

Okay, okay, calm down!

He forces the breath in through his nose, and holds. Bellows it back out. And in again. Slower. Everything smells like the wet cotton in his mouth and the noxious baby oil coating his skin. He pounds the floor with one fist, refusing to scream.

... minarets... quadrangle yards... doric columns... gargoyles...

To throw up, he'd have to remove the gag. And that would bring unknown consequences that he'd rather not discover.

_"...since you've been missing for two weeks."_

The phrase bubbles to the top of his mind, finally, from when Jack had last told him about the investigation. When? Four cycles since Jack started tossing and turning in bed. Two cycles before that when Jack yelled at the kids with skateboards. The news had come before that, surely.

So. Six or seven cycles ago. Two weeks plus three days, give or take.

Seventeen days.

Over half a month.

By now, everyone probably thinks -- like the local authorities do -- that Daniel is _dead_.

They'll never give up, though. Sam and Teal'c. And Hammond. They'll keep looking.

But Jack's good at what he does. He's capable of fooling even those closest to him. What if he's been able to convince them...?

Stop. Dammit, stop!

05:21:37

Pick yourself up.

Keep running.

So they won't look for you. So what? You've been in bad situations before, on your own.

It'll wear off. They said one week. Never mind that it's been seventeen days. The human physiology obviously produces different effects. The important thing is, that it's temporary. Jack will come back.

The bang of the front door stutters Daniel to a panting stop.

He's back early.

He can't be.

Oh god.

Daniel shudders anew at the impossible orders given last cycle. He can't do it.

05:21:50

But he has to.

He can't fight anymore. Every time he thinks there can't be anything worse, there is. Fighting pushes the escalation faster. He can't risk it.

Can't risk reaching Game Over before Jack comes back to his senses, because he doesn't know what will happen then, but a haze of terror is all he feels when he tries to imagine it.

05:22:41

Conveniently, he finds himself already on the ground, against the wall. Steadying his breaths, he opens himself, reaching down. It's the first time he's touched himself since coming here, aside from using the pot. The flesh in his hands is paralyzed. Dead.

05:23:23

He closes his eyes and thumps his head against the wall. Think.

In his world of perpetual dusk with the beige-colored carpet, he laces a desert around him of dry cold, warm fire, wool rugs underneath. He imagines curly hair, soft eyes, dark skin. Small, work-callused hands count his ribs and pour a palm full of fine sand down his chest. A caress wends down his cheek, down his jaw, his chin... and catches in the metal links around his neck.

It's no use.

He prays an apology, feeling grossly obscene.

He can't do this.

05:24:10

Think! There's sounds of footsteps and cabinets outside. The faint clank of cutlery.

Blue eyes switch out the brown; hair is red, and so is the leather harness barely covering the tall, lithe form with rounded hips, powerful arms. Her jeep engine revs, and she winks at him, one hand creeping below the window, doing things to herself outside of his sight. He falls short of the excitement that that alone used to cause in him. So she opens the door, inviting him in. He's grabbing her waist, pushing in and up rough -- but the inside of the jeep is too small, too close.

It's too dark, too tight, and he tries to get up, but her nails hold him inside.

He shudders awake, revolted and shaken.

He hears water running, the pipes rushing inside the wall behind him. Jack can't be more than five feet and fifteen minutes away.

05:35:12

Relax. Just relax. It's been so long, it should be easy.

Water. Go with what stimuli you have. Showers. Soap and heat and wet warmth all around. The steady _thwush thwush_ , pinking skin, dripping hair. The thrill of being clean. Of privacy untouchable.

Laying himself down in the diagonal, knees slightly bent, he 'washes' himself, playing spread hands over oiled skin. 'Shampooing' his hair. Water and ticklish suds skate down his belly, down his groin. He chases them with his fingers, catching touches down his chest. He lathers himself, feeling a stirring at last.

05:40:12, plus or minus ten seconds.

Relax. Enjoy. _Stop_ thinking.

No one but himself. Nothing outside this room. Freedom...

A hundred lovers free to touch him, drawing him out, lifting him into the clouds, hands supporting even as they stroke and squeeze just right.

Mmmm.

He's free to touch in return. He hadn't even realized until now how much he had missed that. Generous breasts and slick secret mouths, lips that wait for him to come to them, eagerly taking him in, choosing him, wanting him, oh!

The door clicks.

No! Nono, it's all right. You're almost there. Don't stop. 

There's a hand on his belly, too large, too severe. There's light through his eyelids. A voice.

"Keep your eyes closed."

He turns his face away, covering himself with his hands. He's excruciatingly aware of himself. The voice, again.

"Aht! don't lose it now. You were doing so well!"

The picture that comes behind closed eyes is a shock. Except for the meaning behind the words, it's exactly the same. He can imagine scraps of smiles he's seen before. Crinkled eyes. Drawling voice, same tone. _For crying out loud!_

Incremental escalation. He's never been blinded before.

Daniel wants to open his eyes, but he's been ordered not to, and he can't fight anymore... he can't...

There's a shuffle of approaching warmth, and then hands are turning him toward the wall, casting his shut eyes into darkness. Body heat winds around all of him. A few tugs, and his mouth is free. He doesn't have enough time to do more than gasp, when the voice breathes into his ear: "Talk to me."

The words burst out of him: "Jack...! Don't leave me here. Don't..."

"That's right. Let me touch you. Beautiful."

Daniel rags in a breath, and the words begin to run together. He exhales, shaky, sagging into the sound of Jack's voice. _I believe in you. I trust you. I've got you. We're okay. Just hang in there, Daniel. Don't give up. Come on!_

The hands fondle him, where Jack would never touch. He groans. Daniel tries to wriggle away, but when the touch grows demanding, a shred of remaining sense stills him. Anything. Anything to keep this closeness, this sanctuary. This illusion.

"Jack, please."

He hadn't taken a shower beforehand, Daniel realizes, connecting the dots with horrified detachment.

All Daniel can smell, all he can touch, all he knows is -- Jack. Woody musk and clean sweat, the lingering traces of gun oil, of trees, of cement and paper. Strong chest, large warm hands. Ruffling his hair. Pulling him in. Familiarity, content, acceptance.

Safety.

The hands gentle. They coax, and he feels himself float. The night clouds embrace him. He wants...! He wants. The fondling touches, comfort at first, become frizzling sensation as the hardness grows behind him. It's instinct and training when he lifts his knee, knowing that he's choosing, that he's giving -- that he'll get something back. He's grasping for that safety net.

He's grasping for that freedom.

The first questing push makes him shudder with shock. He hasn't felt this good since-- It doesn't matter when. He's surrounded by warmth, a million sweeping fingers, and there's home and heat around him, and bolts of pleasure inside. He moans, and, whispers telling him that it's the right thing to do, moans again.

A hand's on him, caressing, gripping just right. He twists into the pulls, and he rubs one of his hands against the strange one -- free to touch. Free to give. There's grunts of approval, and he doubles his pace. The slaps of enjoyment sound in his ears. He wants, he wants, and it's not until he hears it, that he wakes to himself:

"I love you. Mine. I'm not letting you go. Never."

It's too late to stop -- he's already shaking into the end. He's not fighting anymore, anyway, excepting for air to breathe.

When Jack enters him roughly, he just hangs on, loose, for the ride. It's quick. Jack had been close. It's no wonder, with Daniel begging for it and coming in his hands like a whore.

Stockholm's, he tells himself, clenching as Jack pulls out, wetness down his leg. You're not weak. This is _normal_.

But it's not. It can't be. Not yet. Not the same.

Jack's been speaking all this time, and the tone percolates only slowly. Jack should be happy, shouldn't he? Daniel's given him what he wanted. He's given him his soul, besides, and that isn't even part of the bargain. Suddenly, digging fingers spin him around one-eighty degrees.

The slap cuts across his cheek, snapping him against the wall, startling open his eyes. He keeps his mouth shut only out of self-defense, ingrained.

Jack never hurts him. Escalation? Daniel scrambles to his knees, tangling in the chain in his haste. He's choking as Jack looms.

"You think you're better than I am? Is that it? You know how hard it is to keep you? You think I'm still working with those yuppies for the fun of it?" He raises his hand again, position perfect for a Wimbledon backhand.

The words are crazy, incomprehensible, but Daniel shakes his head, frantic. He denies everything. He won't fight anymore. Won't be stupid. Remember?

"I'm not going to lose you. Little bitch, you don't understand anything, do you?"

Unbelievably, Daniel watches as furious tears rise in the man's eyes. Jack's right. Daniel doesn't understand. Predictability and cause-and-effect have flown neatly out the door. Helplessness is a type of freedom, too, he reflects, but it's not the one he wants.

After several seconds, Jack, or rather, this not- _not_ -Jack, seems to rein himself in. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. The image is faintly familiar, and Daniel scrambles to interpret it, his brain feeling like mollases melting.

When he looks at Daniel again, not-Jack is back. "No dinner today," he snaps. "You didn't earn it." He snatches up the gag and Daniel hangs his head, letting Jack retie it.

He's showing Jack his pain and bewilderment. Most of all, however, he's hiding the string of something that he hasn't felt in a long time.

  
__  


... depression... irritability... anger... headaches... difficulty concentrating... trouble sleeping... **Withdrawal**.

Hope.

He's not supposed to need glasses. In the minuscule corner of the universe that he's currently allowed to inhabit, the farthest thing from him is just over seven feet away. Regardless, he squints, trying desperately to see, to fix this moment in his memory. There's a clock on the far wall, with a photo of a jet that he remembers and black hands too fuzzy now to read. 

The door slams in his face.

The lock clicks.

*****

He curls into himself, as always, with the stopwatch clutched tight in one protecting hand. It'd used to be his talisman. It isn't any longer, but habits die hard. With the other hand, he's stroking his twinging left cheek, to convince himself, in a world without mirrors, that it's real. This amulet is one that can't be taken away from him.

He can hear the sounds of a shifting body outside, trying to get comfortable for sleep. He usually drops off later himself, though he never gets any real rest until Jack's out of the house. Tonight, though, he won't doze. His head is too full.

When he hears the light switch click off outside, he presses the largest button on the top of the device in his hand. He depresses the light next, counting along with the slowly changing numbers. Jack will come around. He's sure. Soon. All he has to do now is to keep... on...

00:00:01

00:00:02

00:00:03

00:00:04

...

 

END.

**Author's Note:**

> After I posted "Closeted", [kribban](http://kribban.livejournal.com/) made [a comment](http://community.livejournal.com/jackslashdaniel/473134.html?thread=3119406#t3119406) about how that much more horrible it was that Daniel hadn't come.  So of course in my twisted brain, I thought, wouldn't it be cool if Jack forced Daniel to come, and Daniel liked it?


End file.
